


Regardless of Warnings

by Batsutousai



Series: Tales of the Fairy Men [7]
Category: British Actor RPF, La Belle et la Bête | Beauty and the Beast, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: First Kiss, M/M, Minor Character Death, Robbery, Self Confidence Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-26
Updated: 2013-07-26
Packaged: 2017-12-21 11:19:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/899678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Batsutousai/pseuds/Batsutousai
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A large, haunted manor near the small village where the Hiddlestons are forced to settle turns out to be too much of a mystery for Tom to ignore.<br/>Sometimes, love is found in the most impossible places.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Regardless of Warnings

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaim Her:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by Marvel. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. The characters of Thomas "Tom" Hiddleston is based on a real person, and no offence is intended; this is only for the amusement of myself and other like-minded (read: mentally ill) fans.
> 
>  **A/N:** This is part of a series of fics based on [a challenge](http://batsutousai.tumblr.com/post/38980067347) to write your OTP using various fairy tales. And colours. Twelve fics, one per month, for the entirety of 2013.  
>  July's prompt was _Nightingale_ with the colour blue, but _Beauty and the Beast_ was one of my freebies, and the colour blue matched wonderfully.
> 
> Bri gave me a prompt for Tom accepting Jötunn!Loki, so I'm saying this fulfils that prompt. ;P
> 
> Bit of a complicated play on the original fairy tale, drawing inspiration from various adaptations and, very vaguely, Marvel canon.  
> For your figuring, in this fic, Tom is fifteen, Sarah seventeen, and Emma ten. So, by modern standards, Tom would be a bit young to enter into a relationship with Loki – who is much, _much_ older – but in the time period this fic is vaguely set in, he would be old enough. (And, really, Sarah should probably have been married off already.)
> 
> I'll be out of town and with questionable internet access all of next week, so you're getting this month's fic a....well, more than a couple days... Early, at any rate. Enjoy the treat. (And don't expect it to happen again. XD )

Moving out to the country, where he'd have room to spread out with his experiments, may have been an easy choice for James Hiddleston, but his children all wished he'd made do in the city after the divorce; little Emma didn't remember a thing about their father, and Tom and Sarah's memories were a bit fuzzy around the details. 

Still, the lack of certain memory didn't save them from being packed off to the countryside when their mother, Diana, met a tragic end while working on some props at the theatre she worked for. Their nearest relatives, Auntie Elizabeth and Uncle Tim, had been willing to take the three Hiddlestons in, but had lacked the room to house them, having four children of their own. 

Uncle Tim had offered to see the children to their father's home, but Sarah and Tom had agreed they were old enough to manage Emma together, and dragging Uncle Tim out of the city for the two weeks round trip travel would do none of them any favours. So they packed up their cart, said goodbye to their cousins and aunt and uncle, then started the long trek to the country. 

"Maybe he'll have a beautiful garden," Emma said as they passed another lovely, sprawling manor house. 

Sarah and Tom traded uncertain looks, fairly certain that their father wasn't the sort for flowers, but unwilling to so cruelly disabuse their sister of the notion, given their spotty memories. Perhaps James would have come into sufficient funds to hire a gardener who kept up the outward appearance of his home and servants aplenty to keep up with the inside. And the three children, who had all too often been forced to beg on the streets for their supper when theatre business was slow, would finally be able to enjoy some luxury. Then, mayhap, the distance from London wouldn't seem so wretched, so _lonely_.

It was near what was _surely_ the end of their travel, when the three siblings were set upon by some bandits. Tom did the best he could to fight them off, but he was not a strong boy and he eventually fell back to keep his sisters safe, rather than protecting all of their belongings. 

It was Emma who found the break in the overgrown hedge they'd been attacked against. All three Hiddlestons were slim – more so than the bulky bandits, certainly – and it wasn't difficult for them to squeeze through. The other side was little more than an overgrown field, but there was a fine manor in the distance, lights bright against the growing evening in the ground floor windows. 

The children started for the manor at a run, hoping to find safety from the bandits – and the wilds of the country night – under its sturdy roof. 

They knocked hard against the heavy front door, but the only answer was the door slowly creaking open. They traded nervous looks, then Sarah pushed Tom forward. He swallowed against fear and called out, "Hello?" 

His voice echoed back at him. 

Tom cleared his throat and pushed the door open enough that they could enter. "Please, is there someone in? My sisters and I were attacked on the road and were hoping for somewhere to spend the night." 

The only answer was a series of oil lamps high on the wall lighting the way down the hall Tom could see beyond the foyer. 

"I'm scared," Emma whispered, clinging to Sarah's arm and peering around Tom. 

Tom glanced uncertainly back at his eldest sister, feeling far out of his depth. Sarah tugged at her lower lip with her teeth, then said, "We don't have much choice." 

With Emma's quiet whimper ringing in his ears, Tom led the way into the foyer. Once they were all inside, the door closed behind them, heavy and loud in the stillness of the large building, but when Sarah tested it, it opened with the same ease of the door of their mother's little townhouse back in London. 

Assured that they weren't trapped, the siblings hung up their overcoats and hats on the pegs set along one wall, then travelled cautiously down the long hall. The oil lamps cast a yellow glow to the green carpeting and white walls. No pictures lined the walls, but there were shadows on the wall that suggested there had once been a few. 

"Maybe it's abandoned?" Emma offered quietly as the siblings passed another shadowed outline. 

"That doesn't explain the lamps," Tom whispered back. 

"Hush," Sarah hissed and the younger two offered her apologetic looks. 

The line of lamps led them around a corner onto a short side-hallway and into a massive dining room. The table was large enough to fit at least twenty guests, Tom figured, and there was easily room for another. (Two more, even, if you didn't mind being a little cramped.) The table had candles lit along it, and one end had three place settings and a veritable feast, compared to what the three children were used to. 

Three stomachs growled in tandem, and Tom and Sarah exchanged uncertain looks; was this meant for them? And, if so, where was their host? 

Emma, never one for decorum where food was concerned, let go of Sarah's arm and hurried to the table to settle in front of one of the place settings. She paused for only a moment's uncertainty, then set about serving herself a bit of everything that was in reach. 

"Come on," Sarah decided and she and Tom joined the youngest Hiddleston. 

The food was delicious and filling. And the sensation of being not the slightest bit hungry for the first time in a long time went a long way to making the three forget their mistrust of their invisible host. 

"Perhaps it's time to find some beds," Sarah commented, looking over at where Emma was starting to droop. 

Tom nodded and collected their youngest sister, as he was the closest. Then they travelled back out to the hall. The lamps had changed which ones were lit, leading the children to a staircase that led up to the first floor. Up there, another line of oil lamps directed the children to a well-lit sitting room, which had three large bedrooms and an extravagant corner room with a chamber pot and a bathtub filled with steaming water. 

Tom waved his sisters in to use the bath and stood uncertainly in the centre of the sitting room for eight minutes or so before he gave in to temptation and snooped through the bedrooms. Each had a large armoire with truly gorgeous gowns or suits in each of their sizes. There were also nightgowns and under things. 

Tom ran his hands reverently over the fine suits in the armoire of the largest bedroom. (The one clearly meant for him, judging by the masculine colour scheme of greens and blues and the clothing offered.) They were the sorts of things he'd always watched guests wear at plays, peeking out from the wings and watching the crowd beyond the men moving around on the stage. Sometimes, a particularly generous patron would donate older things of such quality to the troupe and there had been many an evening spent in the costume room with his sisters, running between the fine fabric and making play at being well-to-do. 

"Tom?" Sarah called from the sitting room. 

Tom closed the armoire and walked out to find Emma sitting on one of the chairs, Sarah standing behind her and trying to dry her thick hair with a towel so fluffy that it almost seemed wrong to use them. Both girls were wrapped in towels; Sarah would have pulled out a bucket of water from the full tub and used it to wash their dirty clothing before setting them out to dry. 

"There's clothing in the armoires," Tom reported, stepping forward to take over Emma's hair so Sarah could see to her own. "Fine stuff, mostly, but there are some nightgowns we can use for the night. Uhm, that room," he explained, pointing, "has things more in your size, and that one more for Emma. The last is clearly meant for me." 

"Someone's gone to a lot of trouble for a few unexpected guests," Sarah murmured, looking distrustfully towards the closed door that led out to the hallway. 

"I know." Tom glanced down at Emma and smiled to find her asleep. 

Sarah smiled too and gently took the towel from Tom's hands, nudging him towards the bathroom. "Go on. We left you enough water to clean yourself and your clothing. I'll see Emma to bed while you're in there." 

Tom nodded and left them to bathe. Since he hadn't thought to grab a nightgown, he came out with a towel wrapped tight around his waist. 

Sarah was waiting for him, dressed in the nightgown meant for her and braiding her long hair in the chair Emma had fallen asleep in. The used towels were draped over the backs of other chairs to dry, but Sarah left her hair and transferred them all into the bathroom while Tom changed. 

"I'm uncomfortable taking more than necessary from our host," Sarah admitted once Tom had joined her on the couch, taking over the last of the braid with practised ease. "We could do with new clothing and there are some things we could take, certainly, but..." 

"I know," Tom agreed. "We've no way to carry them and there's no guarantee Father will have space to store it." That had been something they'd worried over while packing everything that had been in the cart, since they were uncertain if their father had even made plans for his children to visit, let alone move in. It had always been a possibility that they would be required to sell many of their belongings; the loss to bandits was only sad in that it meant no chance for future income. 

"And we can't know if he or she would appreciate our theft," Sarah finished and stood. "Your room has the biggest bed, so I put Emma in there." 

Tom nodded himself as he stood and joined her in walking towards the room prepared for him; he, too, was uncomfortable with the thought of separating from his sisters in this large building, and appreciated the forethought to find the largest bed for them to share. 

They climbed into the bed, Emma safely between them, and blew out the last of the candles. Tom half expected he'd be unable to fall asleep in so uncertain an environment, but between the terror of the bandits and the filling dinner, he was asleep the moment his head touched the pillow. 

-0-

In the morning, the children emerged from Tom's bedroom to find a stack of fine suitcases next to a table covered in breakfast food. The eldest two managed to do little more than stare at the gifts, but Emma wasted no time in making herself comfortable at the table. "There's a card!" she called back to her siblings. 

Tom was only just faster than Sarah, but he let her hold the card so he could use his greater height to read it over her shoulder: 

_'To My Young Guests Three,_  
'You will forgive my indulgence, I hope, but as you are the first guests to visit this manor in quite some years, I felt it necessary to see to your every need. In that, please consider the clothing and anything else within these rooms a gift to leave or take, as you please. I have provided cases to pack things in, and there is a cart and a horse by the name of Sleipnir in the stables around the corner of the property which you may make use of. Sleipnir is friendly enough with those who offer him an apple in first greeting, but quite the terror to those who ignore such proper greetings. Should you again find yourselves attacked on the road, he will prove a valuable ally.  
'Concern yourselves not with seeing him returned; I am not often of a mind to go riding and so he is simply gone to waste in my stables. If, however, you find yourselves unable to care for him at your destination, I would prefer you set him loose to find his way back, rather than selling him.  
'Sincerely,  
'Master of Jötunheimr Manor' 

"Well," Sarah said after a moment, eyes tracking over the table's offerings, a bowl of apples on prominent display, "I suppose that answers that question." 

"I suppose so," Tom agreed and they both joined Emma for breakfast. 

Afterwards, Sarah divided the suitcases so they all had the same amount of space – about three suitcases worth, though there were some smaller ones that made the true counting complicated – and sent them each into their rooms for those clothes to which they were most attached. 

"However," she warned, grabbing for Emma's arm before the girl could run off with her trail of cases, "at least one of those needs to be filled with necessities. That means undergarments and your nightgown and such. And you need to pack more practical frocks than stylish ones. Are you listening to me, Emma Elizabeth?!" 

Emma groaned. "Yes, Sarah, I'm listening. Necessities and practicalities. I know." 

Tom covered a smile and left his sisters to have the familiar row, interested in getting his own things sorted out. He'd already changed into his clothing from the night before – worn enough to be both comfortable for the rest of their journey and leave him unconcerned for dirt – so his nightgown could go immediately into one case. Undergarments and a comfortable pair of gloves followed, as well as some unadorned boots that he would likely switch to once they reached their father's; his current pair had seen better days, but they would serve him the rest of the journey. 

Practical trousers and shirts followed, with a jacket that he wouldn't be ashamed to wear out to visit a neighbour's for lunch or a picnic, should he be required as Sarah's chaperone. (It had happened twice in London, and he'd both times regretted the lack of proper jacket.) 

Two quite fine suits went into one of the smaller of his cases. He would be willing to wear both of them, should a need for such occur, but they would also fetch a reasonable price if they turned out to be unnecessary or a waste of space. Shoes to match the suits followed after, as well as a particularly gorgeous pair of gloves. A hat was held aside for the hat box Sarah had left in the sitting room, assuming there was room after Sarah and Emma stuffed the box full of their own findings. 

A drawer he hadn't opened previously held cufflinks and a pocket watch. The watch was a dull silver, unobtrusive enough that it could be worn with Tom's travelling clothing, but fine enough, upon a second look, that it wouldn't look out of place with one of the fine suits Tom had packed away. He picked out some cufflinks for his shirt sleeves and dropped them into one of the cases, then slipped the pocket watch into a pocket of his current trousers, clipping the chain to the loop intended for that very purpose. 

Finished with his packing, he retired to the sitting room to set his cases next to the door out to the hallway, then checked on his sisters. Sarah was fine on her own, but Emma was struggling with an unnecessarily large gown she seemed determined to fit into her case. Tom shook his head at her, but assisted without a word, then got stuck helping her pick out jewellery to match. 

Everyone was finished within the hour. They took a moment to eye the stack of cases a bit dubiously, then Sarah sighed and said, "Tom, see about fetching the horse–"

"Sleipnir," Tom reminded her, hoping he wasn't butchering the unfamiliar name. 

"Sleipnir," Sarah agreed, "and the cart around to the main entrance. Emma and I can manage all the cases, I should think." 

Tom nodded his agreement, shoved an apple in each pocket, and grabbed the two largest cases to take down with him. Before he could get fully out the door, he saw Sarah rushing to collect apples for herself and Emma, and he smiled as he braved the silent manor. The oil lamps on the wall helpfully led him to the front door and he inclined his head in gratitude, uncertain if whatever lit them would see, but unwilling to be rude, given how kind their host had proven to be. 

Their host, Tom mused as he set down the cases in the foyer and collected his coat and hat, the mysterious master of what was, apparently, Jötunheimr Manor. He wondered what sort of man he was, that he would provide for strangers and never once show his face. 

Tom wondered if he might ever find out. Perhaps, once his sisters were settled, he might return to the manor. See what there might be further to see. Assuming he was welcomed a second time.

Sleipnir was large to such a degree that Tom honestly feared for his life as he approached with the apple outstretched, but the horse was gentle in taking it from him and seemed absolutely _delighted_ when Tom produced the second one. "I haven't a third," he apologised as Sleipnir nudged his great nose against Tom's belly, looking for another filled pocket. When the horse turned soulful eyes on him, Tom offered, "My sisters will both have one for you?" 

Sleipnir seemed pleased by this declaration and let himself be led out and hitched to the cart awaiting them without trouble. When Emma and Sarah came out to meet them in front of the manor, Sleipnir perked up and wasted no time in relieving them both of the fruit they held out. 

Emma giggled and stayed to pet Sleipnir's nose while Tom and Sarah brought out the cases, packing them efficiently into the back of the cart. On their last trip in, they found a small basket next to the last two cases, filled with a lunch that would keep for a few hours yet. 

"Thank you!" Tom called into the empty house while Sarah cradled the food to her breast; they'd put some of the leftover breakfast into the smallest of the cases for lunch, but this would be a far more welcome option, and the breakfast food they'd gathered should keep until dinner, should they not reach their father's first. 

The last of their things were packed in and Emma was helped back to sit with the luggage, Sarah and Tom settling comfortably on the front bench. 

The path up to the large gates of the property was long and poorly cared for, but Sleipnir seemed familiar with the worst bumps and kept carefully clear of them. 

While Tom was out of the cart to open and close the gates, Sarah taking the reins, he looked back at the lonely manor they had spent the night in. For a moment, he thought he saw a blue figure on the front steps in front of the doors, but he blinked and the figure was gone. 

How curious, he thought as he re-joined his sisters and they turned, again, towards what was soon to be their home. 

-0-

As it would happen, Jötunheimr Manor was not quite a half-hour's travel from the far edges of the village their father had settled near, almost a little over an hour from the village centre. While Sarah and Tom procured directions to James' cottage, Emma asked a pack of village children about the manor. 

"They say it's _haunted_ ," she told her siblings as they started towards the cottage, which was on the opposite edge of the village from where they'd entered. "The last master of the manor was super cruel and he killed his wife and two children before bringing his rage down on the village for some imagined slight or another. It took ten village men to kill him. When the villagers tried to get into the manor to bury the bodies of his wife and children, they found they couldn't get past the gates. Lights come on in the manor most nights and, sometimes, when the moon is full and the wind is quiet, there is a ghost that wanders the property." 

"Fairy stories," Sarah insisted. "Meant to frighten young children and keep them off the property. We spent the night there and nothing harmful occurred." 

"But the oil lamps!" Emma called. 

" _Stories_ ," Sarah repeated, glancing at Tom for help. 

"You remember that new electrical lighting all the lords are getting installed back in London?" Tom offered. "Perhaps the current master has something similar." Though he'd seen one of the electrical lights, once, and they looked nothing like the oil lamps in the manor, he was sure. Still, the idea was to keep Emma from believing in such farfetched things as _ghosts_. 

"It was dark enough that, was he wearing black, we might not have seen him lighting the lamps ahead of us," Sarah added logically. 

"I suppose," Emma agreed, sounding quite put-upon. 

Almost twenty minutes later, Sleipnir was stopping in front of a beautiful two-storey cottage. There was a sense of neglect about the place, but James Hiddleston came out to meet the children with a wide smile as they got down from the cart. "Sarah, Thomas!" he called in greeting. "And that must be little Emma!" 

The eldest two greeted James politely enough, but Emma hid next to Sleipnir, eyes wide and uncertain. 

"Ah, wait," Tom insisted before James could get close enough to upset the horse. "You have to feed him an apple so he knows you're okay." 

"Protective creature, isn't he?" James said agreeably enough, and waited for Sarah to retrieve an apple from the breakfast food they'd packed. 

Sleipnir rolled an unimpressed stare her way at the proof that they'd been travelling with treats for him the entire time and _hadn't given him any_.

James was quickly accepted by Sleipnir, who decided to ignore the tiny family drama unfolding at his flank in favour of crunching his way merrily through the apple. 

Emma was still uncertain, but with Sleipnir accepting James, she came forward and allowed herself to be introduced by Sarah, then squeezed in a hug that was so improper it was almost embarrassing. 

Tom could practically _hear_ Sarah mentally reminding herself that their father was an eccentric and should not be expected to hold to decorum. 

It just so happened that, when James had moved out to the country, he'd specifically searched out a house that would be large enough to house his three children, should they ever be of a mind to travel out to him. He was honestly saddened to hear of Diana's passing, for divorce had not made him care for her any less, and he immediately promised that all three of his children were welcome to always consider his cottage their home, even after they'd left for marriage. 

The stable James had was small, too small for Sleipnir's great size, especially with James' uninterested donkey napping in the only real stall, but there was an overhang where a cart would normally rest to stay dry which he fit under fine. Tom made a note to start building a proper stall for him tomorrow and spread the roof out enough that it could cover both James' splintering cart and the sturdy new one the three children had arrived in. 

The basket lunch was enough for even James to take part, especially once the children added the leftovers from breakfast. It was as delicious as the other two meals they'd been given had been, and James was immediately curious who had given it to them. When they explained, his expression darkened with concern and a sort of parental anger that boded well for none of them. 

"You're not to return there," James ordered once the tale was done. "It's not safe." 

"I _knew_ there was a ghost!" Emma breathed, excited. 

"We were plenty safe last night," Tom insisted while Sarah considered Emma with the same unimpressed stare that their mother had always done so well. 

"For which I am grateful," James replied, voice tight. "You're _very_ lucky. Every few years, a traveller or bandit or member of the village manages to find their way around the gates and they are _always_ found dead, hanging from the top of that arch over the gates the next morning." 

Sarah wasted no time in promising to never step foot on the property again, and Emma followed suit after a glare from her sister. 

Tom, for his part, hid his hand in his lap, crossed his fingers, and promised, "I won't return to the manor ever again." 

James relaxed and smiled around at them. "Excellent. Well. Let's see about getting you three unpacked, hm?" 

-0-

Their first few months were spent finding a place for themselves in the village. Tom was a fair carpenter, after a childhood spent getting drafted to help with minor repairs to the theatre, and when word got around about the improvements he'd made to his father's stable, he quickly found himself with offers to fix other wooden constructs around the village and at cottages as distant from the village centre as James' own was. 

On days when Tom wasn't using Sleipnir to manage projects requiring lots of wood, Sarah would take the large horse to the next closest manor, where a number of local gentlemen and ladies of note would idle the day away in leisure. When Tom needed Sleipnir, she often followed along with him to assist in holding the building frame or handing up the heavy logs. Any comments about a woman helping with the building work were kept quiet; whether that was due to the obvious good work Sarah did or the stories of James making explosions in the woods around his cottage, however, was anyone's guess. 

Emma was more than happy to ask one of her siblings or James to see her into the village, where she made friends with the other children more her age. She also took to fighting with the abandoned plot of dirt along one side of the cottage, determined to have the garden their mother had often wished for in the city, but never been able to keep in such close quarters. 

-0-

One evening, almost four months since the three siblings had moved in with their father, Tom found himself on the side of the village closest to Jötunheimr Manor, storm clouds threatening overhead and Sleipnir with Sarah for the day. There was no way he could hope to make it back home before the skies opened, but if he ran, he thought he might at least make it to the edge of the manor grounds. 

He could, of course, seek out shelter with someone nearby, all of whom knew him, and that was likely what James would expect him to do. But Tom hadn't been able to stop thinking about Jötunheimr Manor, and he was unlikely to find a better time to pay a second visit without someone missing him. 

He'd collected more stories about the manor from the villagers while he worked on carpentry projects for them. The basic tale was much the same as the one Emma had told them on their arrival: A cruel master who had gone on a murdering spree and only been felled by a large number of villagers, to great cost to those of the village. Most of the villagers were quite firm in telling him about the dead trespassers hung over the gate, a warning to avoid the untended land at all costs. 

The ghost Emma had heard of was a figure all in blue, who was seen in both sun- and moonlight, but never so close to the gates that one could make any features out. Some villagers thought it was a ghost, some thought it some wild animal that prowled the property. One woman, face pinched with the wrinkles of her old age, swore the blue figure was a third son of the mad master, but everyone always laughed her away, reminding her, "There were only _two_ children, Grandmother, you know that." 

Tom wanted – _needed_ – to know who the blue figure was. He also wanted to know why, when everyone else had failed, he'd been able to open the gates, even if it was from the inside. And, of course, there was the question of why the three Hiddleston children had survived their visit when no others had. 

At the gate, he paused uncertainly, but a rumble from above had him reaching out to push the gates open. They stayed firm for one, long, terrifying moment, then slowly gave way until Tom could slip between them and push them closed again. 

He wasn't even halfway to the manor when the skies opened above him and he put on a burst of speed, reminding himself that a dry bed awaited him at the other end. 

When he finally reached the top of the front stoop, the door opened without him touching it, granting him entrance to the empty foyer. Once inside, the door falling shut behind him, Tom took a moment to gasp for breath, holding his hand over a stitch in his side. Then, his breath more even, he straightened and shrugged off the jacket he'd taken to wearing around the village, the one he'd taken from this very manor. He hung it up on one of the pegs to dry, his hat next to it, then he glanced beyond the foyer to the long, dark hallway. 

"Thank you, for letting me in," he called into the house. Quieter, to himself, he admitted, "I wasn't sure you would let me back." 

The oil lamps along the hallway flickered to life, showing the way to the dining room. 

Tom followed the path with a grateful smile, plenty hungry enough to side-track from the bed he'd promised himself. In the dining room, he found a large fire roaring in the hearth, and the chair nearest was set with a bowl of soup and some fresh bread. "Thank you," he said again as he sat down and tucked in. 

Once the food was finished, he got up and let the lamps in the hallway lead him up to the sitting room from before. A warm bath was awaiting him and Tom happily stepped into it after hanging his damp things up to dry. 

He didn't even realise he'd fallen asleep in the tub until he awoke to someone picking him up, a voice gone raspy with disuse muttering, "Should have checked sooner. What have you been doing to make yourself so exhausted, you idiot boy? Other than running from the gate. And what possessed you to come _here_ for the storm, anyway? Surely there was someone else closer, more inclined to let visitors _live_ –"

The chest he was leaning against was that same shade of blue as the figure Tom had seen by the front door four months ago, and he smiled and mumbled, "Knew you weren't a ghost." 

"Christ's sake," the man – it _must_ have been a man, from the lack of breasts and the timber of his voice – snarled, and drowsiness bore down on Tom's consciousness. "Go back to sleep, you little fool. I should hang you over the gate, giving me trouble like this..." 

Tom let himself sink back into sleep, comfortable in the certainty that his host would take care of him. 

-0-

When Tom woke again, the sky outside his bedroom window was still grey and dreary, though the rain seemed to have let up for the moment. His memories of the night before were fuzzy and his head hurt too much for him to consider anything too heavily. He let himself doze for a while, half hoping the added rest would clear his head, but he eventually gave it up as a bad job and climbed out of bed to see if there was anything in the sitting room to eat. 

He had his bedroom door halfway open before he realised he was naked and, blushing, he turned to find an extra nightgown in the armoire; just because he'd never seen his host before didn't mean he should go prancing about the man's home like a newborn. 

There was a light breakfast of porridge and water set out for him, as well as a card in much the same way as the last time. 

_'To My Young Guest,_  
'That was a very foolish thing you did, coming here to sit out the storm. You would have been far better served staying with one of the villagers, assuming there was one near enough willing to shelter you. (I assume there are some, for how often they come to gawk at my gates and lead travellers away before they can attempt to force their way past.)  
'Between the storm and your nap in the bath, you caught a slight fever. It should be better now, but you will not be leaving the manor until this storm has fully passed, as I will not have you getting caught in another downpour and catching further ill. If you MUST seek entertainment, there is a library at the far end of the hall; the lamps will show you the way. Lunch will be served at one, should you be awake by then, and supper will be at six. I trust you know how to use the pocket watch you have kept.  
'Master of Jötunheimr Manor' 

The card served as a reminder of the moment he awoke following his bath. The man holding him had worn blue. Or _not_ worn blue, now that Tom thought back to it. His cheek had been resting on skin, _blue_ skin. There had been a pattern on it, a swirl of lines that Tom had been too knackered to wonder at the path of. 

Well, if nothing else, at least he knew his host wasn't a ghost. Which, well, he'd never honestly _believed_ those stories, but it was always nice to get confirmation. Blue skin was... Well, it was a bit odd, Tom supposed, but he'd grown up around actors willing to commit all manner of oddities to fit a part; odd wasn't bad. 

Tom finished his breakfast, glanced out the window to sigh at the grey skies, then returned to his bedroom to find something to wear for a day around the manor. (And, God, if that wasn't an odd concept.) He stopped to collect his pocket watch and check the time – twelve thirty; he wouldn't bother seeking out lunch – then had the lamps direct him to the library. 

The library was _massive_. It took up a space easily equitable to his father's cottage, starting on the ground floor and stretching up the walls to the ceiling of the first floor. Spiral staircases placed strategically around the wide walkway led between the floors, and rolling ladders attached to the walls near the ceiling allowed browsers to reach the highest books, though enough of the upper shelves on the first floor were empty, making them quite unnecessary. In the centre of the ground floor were a few comfortable-looking chairs and couches, tables with lit oil lamps spread out between them. 

Upon reaching the ground floor via spiral staircase, Tom discovered a tea tray on one of the tables. The cup was empty and the tea, when he poured it, was steaming promisingly. A covered plate had some biscuits, and Tom whispered a quiet, "Thank you," before walking over to the nearest bookcase to find a book to read. 

-0-

Tom's host was not present for dinner, the dining room set only for one. He gave a sigh of regret, having hoped – given the phrasing of the card left that morning – that he might finally meet his generous host, but it seemed it was not to be. 

Dinner was lovely as ever, and it was a rather contented Tom who slowly made his way back up to his bedroom. The feel of contentment vanished entirely, however, when he happened to glance out the window of the sitting room – the view facing the direction of the village – and noticed the orange glow on the horizon. 

He'd seen that glow before in the streets of London, beggars huddled around the tiniest of fires to try and keep warm during the long winter nights. 

But that was London, where the streets were made of cobble or dirt. _This_ fire came from the trees, from things that could all-too-easily burn. This one threatened lives, not promised to keep them warm. 

And here Tom sat, lazing in luxury while the people he'd been coming to know faced a fire. 

Stopping only long enough to pull on his boots, Tom rushed down the stairs and towards the foyer. There, he grabbed his jacket and hat, then grabbed for the doors. 

They wouldn't open. 

"Let me _out _!" he shouted, beating one of them with a fist, to no effect. "Let me out _now_! You can't _hold_ me here!" __

"What part of 'you're not leaving the manor until the storm has cleared' did you not understand?" an icy voice said from behind Tom. 

Stiffening with surprise – really? Beating on the door was all it took to bring his host out of hiding – Tom slowly turned to look towards his host. The man was almost entirely in shadow, save for his bare feet, both of which were blue, and the glint of eyes that looked red in the firelight. Tom swallowed and whispered, "Please. I have to help with the fire." 

His host gave no visible reaction to that. "Lightning strikes. Fires happen. What skills do you believe yourself to possess that are greater than those used to these occurrences?" 

Tom slumped, defeated. "I– I don't–"

The man turned, still somehow keeping in shadow, and ordered, "Go to bed," before vanishing back into the heavy darkness of the manor. 

By the time Tom got back up to his room, the skies had opened back up and the orange glow on the horizon had been swallowed up by the sheets of water falling between them. 

-0-

There was no note awaiting Tom the next morning with the provided breakfast, but he hadn't expected one. The sky outside was still grey, but the rain had stopped again. Tom strained his eyes along the horizon, but no sign of last night's fire remained, and he relaxed back into his chair for a long moment before getting up to get dressed for the day. 

Tea was awaiting him in the library again and Tom gratefully sank down next to it with his book from the day before. He got so lost in the words, he noticed neither his tea growing cold, nor the brief appearance of the sun as it sank behind the western horizon, the clouds finally rolling away. 

He probably would have just sat there all night, reading, had his host's voice not broken his concentration, snarling, "I am not your nursemaid, boy." 

Tom jerked in surprise and brought his head up, blinking rapidly as he tried to find the man in the deep shadows of the library. "It's Tom," he offered, because that somehow seemed the proper response. 

"You've skipped dinner," his host said, apparently ignoring Tom's words. His voice helped Tom figure out where he was, and he finally caught the glint of his eyes. 

Then the words sunk in and Tom grabbed for his pocket watch. It was nearly seven thirty, long past when dinner was supposed to be served. "Sorry," he said, pushing himself to his feet and grimacing at the sensation of pins and needles bringing his lower body back to life. He took a moment to simply stand there and let his legs sort themselves out, almost missing the shadowed movement that indicated the retreat of his host. "Won't you stay?" he asked, feeling oddly bold. (He blamed it on the book, which boasted a particularly strong-willed protagonist who was, perhaps, more than a little bit spoiled.) 

"To what end?" his host demanded, words sharp and cold. 

"To... Uhm, to socialise? I mean, I guess you don't really _like_ talking to people, since you're always killing them and leaving them over the gates, but–"

"And yet, you are somehow still alive, irritating me," his host snapped. "How has that come to be, I wonder." 

"I don't– I– Well, _yes_ , actually, how _did_ that happen?" Tom finally got out. "I've heard, you know. We're not the first children to come onto the property. And the gate, it never opens for _anyone_ , but it's opened for me _twice_ now. And you can't be so very cruel as the villagers think, because you fed us and clothed us and gave us Sleipnir and when I fell asleep in the bath, you carried me back to be–"

"Do not think, boy, that just because I have shown a moment's kindness I am, in fact, _kind_ ," his host snarled, stepping forward. It seemed an unconscious move, for he didn't stop at the edge of the pool of light, kept walking forward until he was at the back of the couch, in easy reach of Tom, should the man care to cause him harm. 

But Tom barely made note of the danger. He was too busy taking in the brilliant blue shade that covered every inch of the man's chest, arms, face; lighter blue lines curled along his skin, making patterns that gave him an exotic sort of appearance, something no actor would have ever been able to copy. His eyes still appeared red, even up close, and Tom spared a brief wonder as to whether that was _actually_ their colour, or just the way fire made them appear. The man's hair was black, shining almost dark blue in the fire light, holding a faint wave and disappearing past his shoulders. 

Tom didn't realise he'd reached out to touch the blue skin until the man tensed under his hand, red eyes widening as they stared at Tom with something akin to disbelief. "Out," he rasped, jerking away from Tom's touch, breathing loud in the air between them. 

Tom blinked, entranced by the play of light against the lighter lines, which appeared to be raised. "What?" 

His host gathered himself, expression falling closed, but for the blaze of fury in his eyes. "Leave! Out of my home!" He threw a hand in the direction of the door of the library. "Get _out_!"

At Tom's side, the flame of the oil lamp he'd been using to read by suddenly flared, too high for the glass chimney to contain and entirely too terrifying. 

Tom ran. 

The oil lamps in the hall didn't light to lead him out, but Tom was familiar enough with the layout by now to know where he needed to go. He barely paused long enough in the foyer to slip on his shoes – how had they even _gotten_ there? – and grab his jacket and hat, then fled out the doors that opened with a touch. 

The gates, too, opened at his touch, then slammed shut behind him with a sort of finality that finally chased the terror from Tom's mind. 

He turned to look back at the manor, clutching the book he'd forgotten he was still holding between his hands. "I don't– Whatever I did, I'm _sorry_!" he shouted through the gates, pushing against them with no real hope that they'd move. 

They didn't. 

Finally, Tom turned away and started the long trek back to the village. At least the night wasn't too cold, and the skies were clear. But Tom hadn't really eaten since breakfast, and his stomach let him know its displeasure. "Two hours," he whispered to it. "You can manage two more hours." 

It wasn't like he'd never gone a day without food before. 

-0-

When his father demanded to know where he'd been the past four days – _four_?! But he'd only been awake for _two_! Well, and the first night of the storm, but that still left one day unaccounted for – Tom admitted that he'd been caught out in the initial downpour and had fallen ill from the chill. His father accepted it, but Sarah frowned at the book he'd brought back with him, as well as the change of clothing; no one in the village would have been able to outfit him in something so nice. 

She didn't ask, though, and must not have made mention to James, for Tom's disappearance wasn't brought up again. 

The following months were slow, an ache in Tom's chest keeping him from showing anything more than false cheer at his continued carpentry work. He read the book he'd brought from the manor three times and kept it under his pillow as he slept. 

One morning, having delivered Emma to the village, Tom found his feet leading him to the wizened old woman's home, where she sat on the stoop with some knitting. "Grandmother, will you tell me about the third son?" he requested. 

She glanced up at him, considered his tired expression, then motioned for him to sit with her. "He was born with the feeding cord from his mother wrapped twice around this throat, bright blue and still. His parents thought he was dead, but he wasn't. He was sickly, yes, and far smaller than his brothers, but he clung to life with a determination that surprised everyone. 

"Ah, but he never lost the colour he'd been born with, a colour that shamed his father into hiding him away, never allowing him from the manor to be seen. Only very few servants knew of him, sworn to secrecy of his existence." She glanced down at Tom, who was watching her, the ache in his chest intensifying at the knowledge of what the current master of Jötunheimr Manor had gone through as a child. "He is called Loki." 

"Loki," Tom repeated, tasting the name on his tongue. 

"You've made his acquaintance," she guessed. 

Tom nodded. "Grandmother, why does he lock himself up in there?" 

She sighed and shook her head. "I cannot say," she admitted. "Perhaps it is because that is the life he knows, perhaps he is afraid for the fearful reactions his appearance will garner." 

"But he's _beautiful_ ," Tom insisted. 

She smiled at him, heartbreak bleeding through her eyes, and gently ruffled his hair. "Not everyone is so willing to look past skin, Young Tom." 

Tom knew that was true and he hunched around his knees, letting his chest ache for a moment longer before he pushed himself to his feet. "Thank you, Grandmother." 

"You're a good boy, Tom," she told him, "but that's a fragile creature you have your eyes trained on. Fragile creatures always lash out before anyone can get too close, unwilling to chance that final crack that will shatter them forever." 

Tom remembered disbelief in red eyes, a flight of terror, locked gates. "I think it's a little late for that warning, Grandmother," he admitted. 

"Once you've found the way through his net, the opening is there for you forever. You just have to find it again." 

Tom frowned and let those words follow him back towards where he'd tied Sleipnir, considering the meaning. Considering the people who had gone before, who had found other ways past the gate; a hole in the hedge, just large enough for three terrified children to duck through. 

A horse that could find his way home. 

Tom untied Sleipnir, something like hope combating the ache in his chest. He was supposed to be collecting logs for his next big project today, but there was space on his rough time table for him to take a day off. "Let's go see Loki," he said to Sleipnir, hoping the horse knew who that meant. 

Sleipnir's ears perked forward at the name. He only stayed still long enough for Tom to climb onto his back, then he was racing through the village, aiming for the manor, and Tom smiled as he clung to Sleipnir's neck. 

Sleipnir led them to the gate, over which hung two bandits, flies buzzing about their heads. Tom grimaced in distaste and was about to warn the horse about the gate not opening, when Sleipnir touched his nose to the iron and they creaked open. 

"You're secretly some sort of magical key, aren't you?" Tom muttered, ducking the bandits' feet as Sleipnir stepped through the open gate. 

Sleipnir didn't race down the path, but walked along it with a sort of caution that sent chills along Tom's spine. He glanced up at the manor and an overbearing sense of unwelcome washed over him, making him want to turn and run back for the gates. 

Sleipnir let out a sharp whinny and reared just enough to make Tom scramble for purchase on the horse's back, eyes torn away from the manor. The sense of unwelcome vanished and Tom hid his face against Sleipnir's mane, whispering, "I'm sorry. Please, please, I'm _sorry_."

Sleipnir finally stopped directly in front of the manor, unmoved when Tom said, "I need to stable you before I can go in." 

When neither jerking at the reins nor pressing his thighs against Sleipnir's side had the horse moving, Tom finally gave it up as a bad job and made to slide off the horse's back. 

Only for Sleipnir to dance to one side and let out an angry whinny. 

Tom took the hint and stayed on Sleipnir's back, but he wasn't happy about it. "We can't just stand here all day, you know. I came here to _talk_ to him, not pretend I'm at a bloody horse sho–"

The front door slammed open and Loki stalked out, blue skin even more beautiful under the light of the sun. "If you _ever_ take Sleipnir to a _horse show_ , not even _he_ will save you from my wrath," he snarled. 

Tom blinked. "You have fangs," he realised, somewhat inanely. 

Loki stared at him, mouth open just enough for the sun to catch on the wickedly sharp edges of his teeth. 

Tom shook himself and lowered his eyes. "Whatever I did last time to offend you, Loki, I apologise," he offered. 

Loki's mouth snapped shut with an audible click. "Did you tell him?" he demanded of Sleipnir. 

The horse gave a whinny, one which sounded almost amused to Tom's ears. 

Loki blinked, then he let out an irritated noise and waved one hand. A sense like oppression lifting washed over Tom and he took a deep breath of relief. "Come in. Sleipnir will see to himself." 

Tom looked down at Sleipnir, Sleipnir tilted his head to look back at him, and Tom took that as permission to finally slide off the horse's back. Sleipnir didn't stop him, held still long enough for Tom to work the bridle off, then left him to chew at the overgrown field. 

Tom considered the bridle for a moment before turning and following Loki inside. He hung the bridle up next to his jacket and hat, then stopped in the foyer, because he had _no clue_ where the manor's master had got to. "Uhm, where is he? Loki," he asked the nearest oil lamp. 

The lamps lit a path to the dining room. It was empty, but a door Tom had never noticed before at the far end stood open, so he went through it. 

The room he entered was a kitchen. It was well lit, between the fire in the fireplace and the sun coming through the large windows taking up most of one wall. Through the latter, Tom saw what appeared to be a prospering vegetable garden. "Emma's been trying for _months_ to get anything to grow in Father's garden," he commented to Loki, who was seated at the small table between the doorway Tom had come through and the fireplace. 

Loki flicked his eyes up at him – _God_ , they really _were_ red, weren't they? – then back down at the teapot he was stirring with a small spoon. "Most soil around here doesn't take well to the common vegetables." 

"Did you... _Can_ you import soil?" Tom wondered. 

Loki huffed and drew out the spoon, a delicate tea ball following. "Of course you can. I don't." 

"Then how do you–?"

"You're not that obtuse." 

Tom took a moment to wonder if that was meant as a compliment or insult, then turned his mind back to the certainty that had been lurking just out of reach since his second visit, when the gate had taken a moment to give and the lights had lit to follow his requests and a flame had leapt too high, too suddenly–

"Magic." 

Loki bared his teeth in a parody of a smile and made a motion with one hand. One of the teacups he'd just filled floated off the table and over to Tom, who took it a bit numbly. "One of my many curses." 

Tom wanted to say he didn't think Loki was cursed, that he was beautiful and exotic and impossibly infuriating, that his magic seemed as much a blessing as a curse, living all alone in such a big house. But then he remembered what Grandmother had said about fragile creatures, so he instead took a sip of his tea, then asked, "Why didn't you just kill us?" Because that question would nag at him until he got an answer. 

Loki considered him, expression blank over his own tea cup. Finally, when Tom was just starting to admit – to himself, if no one else – that he wouldn’t be getting an answer, Loki said, "Intention," and sipped at his tea. 

Tom blinked. "What?" 

Loki sighed and dropped gracefully into one of the stools scattered around the table. "The magic that keeps people out, it's intention-based. Should your intentions be pure, should they not involve an interest in robbery or damage to my property, it will let you through the hedge or – as you have discovered – the gate, alive. There is a similar spell on the front doors. 

"You three were not the first to make it to a bedroom," Loki continued with a careless shrug, "but you were the first who took a look at everything offered, then _turned it down_." He narrowed his eyes at Tom, calculating and perhaps with a hint of confusion. "Even with my permission, you three kept, largely, to the simplest of the clothing. You didn't raid the silver or attempt to take the furniture." 

Tom looked away and shrugged. "What would we do with such finery? We weren't even sure we would have places to sleep in Father's cottage, let alone space to store such things." 

"Pretty things can be sold and the money can be used to buy a bigger cottage. Take enough, you could probably buy your own manor." 

"And what, exactly, would an inventor and his three estranged children do with a manor?" Tom deadpanned. 

Loki's mouth twitched with what Tom was nearly certain was a smile. "If I had not said those things were a gift, if I had simply left the suitcases, would you have filled them?" 

Tom considered that, staring down into his tea. At last, he admitted, "I don't know." He glanced up at Loki, blue eyes catching on red and stilling for a moment, entranced. When Loki blinked, Tom forced himself to look into the fireplace behind the man. "Without knowing about Sleipnir and the cart, though... We might have taken a small case each, filled them with the necessities, so Father wouldn't have to struggle to clothe us immediately upon arrival." 

"You didn't come back," Loki commented, and Tom made the mistake of meeting his eyes again. "After you left the first time. It took you a while to come back." 

Tom swallowed and tore his gaze away with effort. "Uhm, yeah. Well, the villagers – Father especially – are quite unnerved by your, ah... Warning sign, I suppose? The bodies over the gate. Sarah, Emma, and I were made to promise we wouldn't come back here." 

Loki tilted his head. "You did. Eventually." 

Tom shrugged and tried to pretend he wasn't blushing as he admitted, "I never meant that promise." 

Loki laughed, low and quiet and absolutely _gorgeous_.

And, God, Tom was so _ruined_ , wasn't he? Either Loki was weaving a spell over him, or Tom's months of curiosity, followed by more of heart-break, had morphed into a level of attachment that didn't bode well. 

Loki was silent for a long few minutes, giving Tom's mind the time necessary to have a minor panic attack at the thought of attraction to a male – a male that his father would _never_ approve of, no less, even were he willing to overlook the gender difficulty. 

But, well, Diana had never insisted her children follow the words of the Bible to the letter, and Tom had stopped caring what his father thought two weeks after he'd walked out the front door and not looked back. Half a year living under his roof again did not heal ten years without him, and Tom wasn't about to let it heal just so he could feel guilty for caring for someone who had hidden away from the world because he was _different_.

"Why did you come back?" Loki asked, finally breaking the silence. 

Tom blinked, his mind struggling to return to the present. "What?" 

"Now, here," Loki clarified. "Why did you return? You weren't supposed to." 

Tom swallowed, considered the complicated tangle of emotions that had found him riding Sleipnir through the gate in a last-ditch chance to speak with the beautiful blue man seated across from him. Instead of answering Loki's question, though, he asked, "Why did you scare me away?" Because if he was going to answer Loki's question, he needed to know what he'd done wrong. Maybe he could avoid it this time. 

Loki narrowed his eyes, searching Tom's face for something that Tom wasn't certain he could provide, so he just kept his expression open and curious. " _That_ ," Loki finally snarled, jabbing a finger at Tom, shoulders scrunching up in a movement that was quite akin to a turtle ducking into its shell. 

"I don't– I have no idea what I'm doing _wrong_!" Tom complained. 

Loki shoved away from the table, their cups clattering against their saucers, and he accused, "You don't think I'm repulsive!" 

And, oh, Tom's heart felt like it had just shattered into a million pieces in his chest. "No," he whispered, voice dragging with so much sorrow for the man, "I don't." 

Loki drew his arms tight against his chest and his whole body shuddered. "I think it's time you–"

"You're not kicking me out again!" Tom shouted, standing up from the table so abruptly that tea spilled from his cup. "I refuse to leave just because you can't accept that _one person_ thinks you're beautiful!" 

And then Tom realised what he'd said and red spread across his cheeks and down his neck. 

Loki, for his part, just sort of stared at Tom in disbelief. "You don't– You can't– I am _repulsive_! I am wrong and disgusting and unnatural and–"

"No," Tom interrupted, determined and aching. "No. Wrong is the bandits lying in wait along the highways, just looking for easy prey to rob and murder. Disgusting is the way people spend the weekend in church to confess the sins that they're just going to go right back out and commit again. Unnatural is the back alleys of London, where the dying lie down to be forgotten. 

"But you– You're different. Exotic." 

"A murderer," Loki deadpanned, his expression flat, but his eyes flicked all over the room, unable to focus on any one thing for longer than four seconds, and completely incapable of looking at Tom at all. 

Tom swallowed and returned, "Threatened." 

Loki gave a laugh full of nothing but sharp edges. 

Tom took a deep breath and focussed on those red eyes, for all that they refused to look back at him. "Scared. Unforgiving. Lonely." 

Loki met his eyes at the last, something almost desperate in them, which was entirely at odds with the way he snarled, "I have no need for companionship beyond Sleip–"

"You gave us Sleipnir. Said he needed the exercise," Tom reminded him, gentling his tone. "You put a gate between yourself and the villagers, you've put hours between yourself and Sleipnir. When I try to get close to you, you push me away. Scare me out the front gate and lock it shut behind me. But I'm not going to let you scare me any more. Sleipnir and me, we're not going to let you lock that gate against us too. Not again." 

Almost too quick for Tom to track, Loki darted forward and wrapped a hand around Tom's throat, tight enough that it couldn't be missed, but not so tight as to restrict his breathing. The boy froze, heart in his throat, but forced himself to meet the red eyes as calmly as he could. "I'll break your neck," Loki hissed, leaning in so their noses were nearly touching. "Leave you hanging between those bandits, and your father will be able to say 'I told you so'. Your sisters will be sobbing messes, mourning for a brother–"

"Do it, then," Tom said, interrupting the monologue before he could lose his nerve. God, the man knew exactly which buttons to push, didn't he? "Kill me. Prove them right. You're an absolute monster, so wrong that you murdered someone who was willing to look past _everything_ –"

Lips crushed against Tom's, too hard and edging on painful. He reached up to find purchase against Loki's arms and chest, a recently split nail catching against skin and making Loki hiss against his mouth. Loki clamped his teeth down hard on Tom's lower lip and he purposefully scratched the split nail against the man's chest, catching on the raised line and surely drawing blood. 

Loki's hand left Tom's throat, twisted around into his hair and used a grip painful enough to bring tears to Tom's eyes to tilt his head at just the right angle for the man to lick into his mouth, fucking _devour_ him from the inside out. The hand not in Tom's curls made quick work of getting under Tom's shirt, scratching nails against the small of Tom's back hard enough to raise red lines. 

And then, like a gust of air blowing out a candle's flame, Loki pulled away, eyes wild and pupils blown to twice their size. Dark blue lines crisscrossed over his chest from where Tom's nails had passed, an occasional dot of red welling up where the dark blue lines met with the lighter blue markings. The man shook his head once, then said, "Le– You need to go–"

"Don't you _dare_ ," Tom spat, stepping forward and reaching for the elder. 

Loki caught his wrists and drew Tom forward until his elbows knocked against the blue chest. "If you stay, you _stay_ ," he warned, voice low. 

Tom took barely a breath to decide; it wasn't hard, he'd been as good as a dead thing these past few months. "You _never_ lock a door against me again. Not to keep me in, not to keep me out." Because as much as he didn't think he could live without Loki now that he'd got this close, he refused to live in a gilded cage. 

"You _stay_ ," Loki insisted. 

"Here, with you, in Jötunheimr Manor," Tom agreed, "but I refuse to hide from my family. You let them in or you learn to trust that I will _always_ come back when you let me out." 

Decisions flashed in red eyes, words and threats and plans and actions. And Tom _saw_ the moment Loki remembered Tom coming back. And coming back again. Despite everything. "No locked doors," he finally agreed, and it clearly hurt him to allow that, something so deeply buried that Tom wasn't sure he'd ever be able to patch it back up. 

But he leaned in, pressed his lips gently against Loki's, tried to show him that this didn't have to be a fight, that there could be surrender between them. Surrender and trust and maybe, in time, love. 

Because even broken men with blue skin and magic bending to their will and so much blood on their hands deserved a happy ending.

..


End file.
